


too warm a welcome

by jeannedarc



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Cock Warming, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Magical Tattoos, Piercings, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Prostitution, gentle degradation, psychically shared pleasure, top!hyuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeannedarc/pseuds/jeannedarc
Summary: Donghyuck, overseas on a diplomatic errand, finds himself caught in a trap, set by his host court to force him to give up his image as a pristine future lord of heaven.It is a very, very attractive trap.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Nakamoto Yuta, gentle nods to past nahyuck
Comments: 12
Kudos: 117





	too warm a welcome

**Author's Note:**

> so guess who turned on interpol and cranked this out in one day?  
> only slightly beta'd. thanks lita for this horny ass idea and for making sure it was able to be read.

When first he steps foot on terra firma after a long and arduous three days’ journey by boat, Donghyuck can say with great confidence that he is anxious to get to his quarters, to _rest_ as he has not been able to. His sea legs, he’s found, aren’t as strong as he’d believed them to be upon setting off. The constant rocking motion of the ship beneath him had lent to his nightmares, not that he’s so lacking in pride that he’d have admitted them to anyone but himself.

Still, he hasn’t slept, and there’s a sort of wild-eyed mania that overtakes him when he makes his slow, meandering way down the docks, in the direction of the city. His guide still struggles to keep up with him. He should be kinder, but cannot, not when the spectre of the sea still threatens to topple him over himself.

Beyond the docks, at the cityscape’s edge, is the market, in all its noisy glory. This, at least, is a comfort of home even in a foreign land. Donghyuck lights up with childish glee when he sees the crowds shuffling along, the various shop owners watching over their stores with stone-set faces, their arms crossed over their chests. Here and there he can even glimpse the glittering magical artifacts that have been banned from his homeland, the sort that the older generation still keep tucked beneath their pillows despite the criminal implications of their ownership. Tradition, after all, is difficult to give up. Here, though, they are on display, proudly sold, and as he starts passing through the numerous stalls, he can’t help but catch breath in his chest at seeing things of which he’s only heard tales back at home.

It is ironic, he thinks, that these are the things he’s been sent to deal with. That he will be petitioning before the court that the sale of these magic items be banned for the safety of, not just these countrymen, but his own, and those of the surrounding kingdoms as well. He should buy a couple, if only for demonstration. So he knows what he’s dealing with, of course. If he’s proven anything over the years it’s that he can get away with murder when his father and his cohorts question him about mysterious goings-on. No one has found out about the fire in the lily garden, or the stolen concubine, or the stores of liquor that had gone missing one warm summer night when the other diplomats, in a move that was unlike them, had decided to give up their work for the evening.

He stops here and there, admiring the knitted silks, the exotic fruits and enormous fish with their heads still intact. If he makes eye contact with more than his fair share of shop owners without intent of purchasing anything, they do not seem to blame him; he takes pleasure in his youth affording him this much, at least. He does not know that he would be able to restrain himself when engulfed by so much beauty.

Amidst the owners, the customers, the wanderers, are the pretty pleasure people, glittering brighter than any magic stone, men and women and people caught between the two ends of that rope. He admires the way they line their eyes, the way they cock their hips, the way they hold their heads higher than Donghyuck has seen most people do. Perhaps, were he not the son of a son of a diplomat, purported to purity, pinned to the expectation that other potential lords of heaven also shoulder, he would give them some business. After all, it would be wicked of him to deny the way he stirs at seeing them, not so much of the heart as of the loins.

It does not help that they wiggle their fingers enticingly in his direction. They must smell the coin that keeps him jangling as he walks along.

At the last moment, he stops in at a magic stall, and purchases a small pair of crystals, both opposing shades of violet. The owner does not ask questions, does not tout their magical properties. He only states his price in a gruff tone that does not match his face.

There’s a tingling that settles over him as soon as he tucks his parceled purchase into the tapered waist of his robe. The stones press into the gentle curve of his ribs, and tingle from the point of contact all the way down to his toes. He swears he feels the hair at his crown stand up ramrod straight.

His guide finds him, having been lost in the crowd. “Your Grace, with all due respect--”

And, finding he needs silence to absorb what he’s just done, Donghyuck presses two large golden coins into his guide’s hand. “Go find yourself someone else to follow around, hm?” he suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking with a wry smile. “I can see the palace from here, and you can come find me after you’ve had some fun yourself.”

The guide looks down into his open palm, and then back up into Donghyuck’s face. It must be simpler to take the bribe than do one’s job, a fact for which Donghyuck is grateful when said guide scurries away into the market.

His money and curiosity well-spent, Donghyuck makes his way to the palace, careful of the gamblers and beggars sitting on the ground. He deposits little bronze coins into the cups he can reach, until they’re crawling over one another, trying to grab at his sleeves, to rip the purse from his open hand. Only then does he give them any sort of contempt, chastising them: “It would be easier for the lot of you to share what’s been given than take from the hand giving it.”

They do not look ashamed, but they do settle back into the dirt. Nodding, Donghyuck goes on.

The palace gates are open, and someone he vaguely knows -- a face, the impression of a body beneath proper clothes, the shape of hands and legs and ass, though not a name -- is there to welcome him. “It is a pleasure to have you,” he says, simpering when he bows his head as is proper to his station. “Should I show you to your room?”

After all the wandering, Donghyuck is tired. So he nods, thanks his escort. “Tell me your name again, Honourèd Assistant,” he requests in a tone far gentler than he’d used with the guide who’d crossed the sea with him. “It escapes me, for which I do apologise.”

The dust kicks up at the escort’s feet as he skids to a halt. He turns slowly. “You don’t remember?” he asks, turning a fair shade of red. “We, ah, we spent some time together at the last council of nations…”

It comes back to Donghyuck in a flash, and he nods so quickly he fears he might knock that warm, tingling sensation from his belt. “Jaemin,” he murmurs, raising an eyebrow. “I must say, it is good to see you again. I apologise for the confusion… the sea, you see…”

Jaemin waves a hand, though the distraught expression in his eyes does not fade. “Of course. It happens to the best of us.”

This is patently untrue, though he doesn’t expect Jaemin, whom he’s met all of once, to know that. Donghyuck so rarely forgets the names of those he’s bent over his father’s work desk, after all.

The path from the front gate to his room is not a long one. He is housed in the western quarters, and his room is a luxurious one. Jaemin gives him an impatient glance when pushing open the door, as if he expects something he’s yet to speak into the confusion-laden air between them. He peers into the room first, and is unable to mask the way his testiness turns sharper, more defined.

“What is it?” Donghyuck offers his best ingratiating smile as he tries to duck his head into the room. He meets no resistance. At least he knows he will not die in here, or if he does, it will be a quick death.

“Oh, you know,” and here Jaemin drops the formalities, just for a moment, “making sure it’s good enough for a future lord of heaven.”

Now it is Donghyuck’s turn to expect something of Jaemin, though he does not put a name to it as he crosses the threshold into his room.

He thinks Jaemin says something to him as he closes the door behind him, but it matters little to him what that something could be when the bed is the size of a small city-state back at home. He washes his hands, and feet, and face, and sinks into the bed, letting out a detestable groan at the comfort with which he finds himself surrounded, those same silks he’d seen in the marketplace outside cushioning him as sleep threatens to take him.

Donghyuck, sleepily, expresses a small gratitude that he is able to settle into foreign quarters easily, if given the right accoutrements. This bed is one of them. The market is another. Not that this is something he’s proud of, mind; there’s no logical reason he should be forced to travel overseas in the first place, times being what they are. The only thing he has to do is get a document signed, something that could be done by bird or by boat if only his superiors would listen to him.

(Doyoung, for the record, had clapped him on the back, tugged at the sleeve of his robe, and murmured with great confidence: “Have a nice trip,” at which Donghyuck had rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders. Not like the virgin-pure, untraveled, uncultured son of a son of a diplomat has anything he can do on a trip such as this one. He has not had so much as a drink, a drug, a man or woman to his name, to hear it told in the whispering halls of his home domain. He is something of an example for his fellows, after all. It would do him well to play his carefully-hoarded secrets close to his chest when he does not yet know for certain who is a friend and who is his father’s spy.)

Outside, the city bustles, its hawkers and prostitutes lively in their business the same as they are inside this palace’s confines. The sound is more distant now, though he focuses on it even as he slips into a light doze. He can smell hot food being passed from vendor to customer, the garlic and onion strong enough to tug at one’s waterline. His stomach rumbles; his unconscious self wonders if perhaps he should ask Jaemin back and consult him on what to eat within the palace’s confines. 

Outside there is life, but here in this room, secluded from the prying eyes of his fellows, Donghyuck feels nothing but a sense of…

Well, _boredom_. And exhaustion, though that is tertiary at best.

His nap takes him quicker than he’d like to admit, and when he dreams, it is not of home, but of the possibility he has lain before him while here.

///

The first thing Donghyuck notices when he wakes is that it smells of wine in his room. 

He flinches, eyes forcing closed again, like a man staving off a headache. Has he been sleepwalking again? Had he made good on his idea to ask Jaemin about food but forgotten to warn that he isn’t allowed to drink? Not that it matters, of course, the consultant knowing full well what they’d gotten up to a couple summers prior.

The second thing he notices is that he has somehow become wrapped in the silks; he must have become warm in his sleep, rolled around and trapped himself. The third is that his robe is undone, but that his belt is still keeping it in place enough to preserve modesty.

The fourth should be the first: There is someone else here.

Donghyuck goes from hazy with sleep to wide awake in a split-second, sitting up straight and staring into the face of quite possibly the most beautiful man to have ever walked this earth, save Donghyuck himself.

“Hello,” greets the consort, an enigmatic smile playing on his full lips and a twinkle in his unnaturally bright eyes. He is nude from the waist up, and is pouring a drink into a cup, clearly intending upon offering it to Donghyuck. The son of a son of a diplomat is transfixed by the sinewy movement of a bright and beautiful tiger that creeps up the side of the consort’s abdomen, its face nestled in his ribcage. “I was sent to give you a proper greeting, if that’s alright.” He finishes with the bottle, stops it up, sets it on the serving tray upon the table in the bedchamber’s corner.

He doesn’t even look as he moves. Like it’s practised. Like he’s poured drinks this way a hundred thousand times.

“A proper greeting comes from a prostitute?” Donghyuck has been chastised for his sharp tongue far too many times, and the memory of it as such stings against the back of his hand, the curve of his spine, but he does not keep it in check. “This is quite the lovely country you’ve got here.”

“Whoever said I was a prostitute?” The stranger in his room bats his eyelashes, and goodness, but is he ever pretty. “I was sent by the court.”

Donghyuck cannot determine where the lie is, but knows this must be a trap. He leans back against the numerous pillows that had propped him up in his sleep, tugs the neckline of his parted robe back into some semblance of propriety. “For what reason did they send you?” he queries cautiously, raising his chin, unable to show weakness even when he’s just awoken. A curse of his, he’s been told.

“To greet you,” says the obvious prostitute a second time, as if this, too, should be apparent.

“Yes, but to what end?”

The prostitute smiles, and all his teeth show through. He shines in a way that Donghyuck cannot ignore, that no one with eyes in their wretched head could look past, should they even dream of trying. “How long do you think you were asleep, Your Grace?” he asks, taking the cup into his hand.

When he stands, the quickly-dimming light of the sun streaming in through the open window catches on a chain round his neck that Donghyuck had not seen before, linked from his neck to his navel where it seems to be pushed through his skin. _A piercing,_ thinks Donghyuck, a touch envious. Sons of sons of diplomats aren’t allowed such common forms of self-expression. He watches the chain. It moves as sinuously as the prostitute does, and the various angles at which the light reflects off the silver has Donghyuck hypnotised.

Despite the clear swagger and confidence with which the consort carries himself, he does not slosh a drop of wine over the edge. 

He stands bedside, to Donghyuck’s right, and offers the drink. Donghyuck narrows his eyes and ignores the cup in favour of looking into those deep and seemingly guileless eyes. “Long enough for you to get in here unannounced. Let me guess, you were expected to be here upon my arrival?”

The consort laughs, a brief and disarming sound. _He’s got the chuckle of a country cabbage,_ Donghyuck thinks, trying not to roll his eyes. He supposes no amount of work in even the finest of pleasure houses could train _that_ out of a man. “I got bored. You certainly took your ample time getting here, didn’t you?” He sets the cup on the bedside table, careful of the ornate decoration, a tea set painted in blue and gold without a speck of dust to mention on its lacquered surface. “What is your name, future lord of heaven?”

Donghyuck juts out his bottom lip before answering stiffly. “What is yours, since you’ve kindly reminded me of my manners?”

“Call me Yuta,” whispers the consort, before remembering himself as well. “Would you mind if I sat? You look well-rested, while I’m anything but.”

He doesn’t know if it’s sympathy or the guilt for forgetting who he is, what’s expected of him, but Donghyuck takes a lingering look into Yuta’s eyes, and inches to his left to make room. “I have no intention of sleeping with you,” he grumbles, folding his arms across his chest.

“Is that so?” Yuta stretches his arms over his head, rolls his neck. “Whoever said we had to sleep together?”

“The fact that you do what you do for a living states it with a clearness that would make the garden ponds at home envious.” Donghyuck huffs for emphasis. “Why did they send you?” He scans the length of Yuta’s body, scrutiny clear in the scrunch of his nose. “It isn’t as if they don’t know what it’s like for me back home. They’ve been briefed, provided they read the dossiers that everyone gets when someone visits.”

“What do I know about dossiers or your home?” Yuta points out, settling in beside Donghyuck, their elbows brushing together. “I know lying on my back, and people taking their pleasure of me.”

“So you are a prostitute,” Donghyuck points out in a smug singsong.

“You’re smarter than they say you are,” Yuta agrees, shifting so that the necklace that tethers him throat to belly rattles softly in the mostly-quiet room. “Jaemin said you forgot him.”

“Well,” and here Donghyuck swallows, the memory tugging at him in a way that might very well make him ashamed, “to be fair, we did not spend much time together in a position that required us to face one another.”

Yuta laughs again, that bray of a sound, and Donghyuck might flinch, but he’s a bit enamoured of the way anyone could be so carefree. He remembers his own childhood, before he’d had restraint beaten into him, when he had maintained the same rebel spirit.

For a second he thinks perhaps he should steal it from Yuta’s very lungs. But no, it would not befit this man, decked in artwork of many kinds. “Do you have more tattoos?” he asks, trepidation creeping into his tone, unbidden.

The silk beneath them both rustles as Yuta rolls onto his stomach, revealing a curling dragon, the head of which perches on his left shoulder. Donghyuck traces the shape of its horns, its seemingly endless whiskers, the scales that make its skin. “This must have taken quite some time,” he says, admiration and admonishment equal in his tone. “Is this what your lifestyle affords you?”

“This and more,” Yuta agrees dreamily. “I thought you said you wouldn’t sleep with me.”

“My touching you is not my sleeping with you,” Donghyuck points out, finding the tail end of the dragon, its red and yellow end just above Yuta’s kidney. “Perhaps I simply admire art. Who should have read the dossier now?”

Yuta snorts out something like derision. “Do you mind if I get off this necklace? It’s digging into my skin. Not very comfortable, in spite of your almost-royal bed.”

Almost royal. The barb is one that Donghyuck would not abide under normal circumstances, but he does, barely catching his tongue behind his front teeth to stop himself. “Do as you wish. I presume you’re paid to be here, no matter what we do.” He would be lying to himself not to admit that he was playing out the same scene in his head over and over again, the wanton moans Jaemin had given him each time he’d pressed into him, or snaked his hand across a bare expanse of chest, or tightened his grip around a pulsating sex that threatened to spill down his pristine fingertips and all over his father’s important paperwork. 

It would be a greater lie if he tried to say that, the more he remembers how exactly that night had gone, he did not imagine Yuta in the same compromising position, the stretch of his tattoos as he accommodated each and every one of Donghyuck’s whims like some good little whore.

“You’re pretty,” Yuta says absently, dragging pinched fingers along the fringes of his hair that have fallen loose of a careful bun. “They didn’t tell me that.”

“That should have been the first thing,” Donghyuck complains, though it’s off-colour, distracted, he too focused on the heat pooling between his legs when the memory plays itself again, again, again, a theatre he cannot leave. “You’re quite pretty yourself. Show me the rest of your art, would you?”

“What makes you think I have more?” asks the whore, but he divests himself of his loose-fitting breeches, barely tied around his waist for anything more than modesty. They end up a pile on the floor, and oh -- his cock, laying mostly soft against his inner thigh, glints with a ball of gold on either side of the head. He lies back as he had been before, back plank-straight and staring up at the ceiling, though he distinctly lacks in the glass-eyed dispassion that Donghyuck would expect of him.

Distraught by this new revelation, Donghyuck almost forgets the tattoo in his rush to sit up, inspect with a more critical eye. But on Yuta’s thighs, just above his knees, he wears a matching pair of radiant golden fish that seem to be endlessly swimming toward one another. He believes in magic -- of course he does, how could he not? -- but there is no ink that could account for the movement of these willowy fish, their sides seeming to flow toward each other the way tributaries feed the sea.

His breath catches in his throat the same way that Yuta’s jewelry catches in the light: a permanent state of being, of breathtaking artistry that only nature could possibly create.

Yuta watches him, something like amusement glimmering in his eyes when Donghyuck dares raise his head again. “Do you like my pets, Your Grace?” he asks, when the future lord of heaven traces the shapes of the fishes’ ribs against his thigh, managing a shudder that seems to roll through him in his entirety.

“I think they’re lovely,” says Donghyuck, withdrawing his touch as if he’s burned by it. “I think they must have hurt very much, but that they were worth the effort.”

Yuta preens beneath the praise.

Then Donghyuck is stricken with an idea. “Give me that drink you brought,” he orders, and Yuta obeys. It’s strange to dragoon someone so wild and free, but Donghyuck finds he likes the power. He takes the cup in a slightly-shaking hand, never minding the way his robe falls open, the way his previously purchased pouch nearly slips from the loose line of his belt. 

_Here goes nothing,_ he thinks, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

He tips the cup, and the wine spills just so, catching in the place where metal meets skin at the luscious dip of Yuta’s navel. He asks a question with his eyes and, receiving no rebuff, ducks his head. His lips find that tiny cavern, and he sips the drink, tasting steel and grapes and a touch of sweat.

Yuta makes a noise that Donghyuck cannot decipher, but he does not have to when Yuta’s fingers slide into his hair, hold him in place. “You asked what my lifestyle affords me,” he says in a breathy gasp. “This certainly isn’t one of those things.”

Donghyuck’s lip quirks. “It is now.” And he does it again, until Yuta’s skin is sticky with liquor and all he can do to keep himself sane is continue lapping at the gathering of wine in Yuta’s button.

The way in which Yuta writhes beneath him is reminiscent of a snake, and as if to complete the comparison he darts his tongue out across his lips. “Is this what they do where you’re from?” he asks. “Drink wine like a fucking pig?”

The curse catches Donghyuck off guard. He sits straight up, knees pulled primly beneath him and his one unoccupied hand resting on his knee. It is easy to notice that the use of his mouth has Yuta’s previously limp cock standing somewhat attentive between his luscious thighs. “Do you happen to like sleeping with a fucking pig, then?” he asks, gaze fixed on the erection with which Yuta has presented him. 

He finishes the contents of the cup himself in one swig only to have another idea strike him. With his free hand he taps the bow of Yuta’s top lip, a tilt of his head in question.

“Disgusting,” Yuta says, like Donghyuck should be the one ashamed, but he keeps his mouth ajar nonetheless. “Do it, then, if you like.”

When Donghyuck kisses him, it’s just as much a share of passion as it is the wine held long in Donghyuck’s mouth. Yuta’s hand finds the stretch of Donghyuck’s breastbone from beneath the layers he’s worn for what feels like far too many ages, strokes his skin, seeming to relish in drinking in the warmth of flesh beneath his smooth fingertips. 

They lick into one another’s mouths, seeming to lose all sense of propriety in favour of savouring the taste of wine on each other’s tongues. Yuta is still working, though, always working, always _machinating_ , a fact that is evident in the way he unties Donghyuck’s sash at long last.

Donghyuck only has a half-second to protest and then his crystals are falling to the bed beneath the two of them. They clack against one another, interrupting the slick sounds of their kissing coming to a stop. “What is this, Your Grace?” asks Yuta with a very obvious smirk. He plucks the tiny satchel from the sheets between them and unravels them before Donghyuck has the good sense to stop him. 

All at once he marvels at the colour of the stones, holding one up to the gold bar of light that casts just across their shared bed. Its flecks of gold and purple and royal blue all catch at once, and he must be some sort of magpie, because he takes the stone in his palm immediately.

“It’s warm,” Yuta breathes, and Donghyuck nods his assent.

“Where I carried it… it tingled,” he admits, a bit sheepish. “As if some sort of spirit were inside it.”

Yuta fits the cord around Donghyuck’s neck, tying it with nimble fingers, and Donghyuck tries not to think of where he developed that particular skill, instead focusing on the fizzing energy that begins in the divot of his collarbones only to diffuse throughout them. “Do you know what these are?” asks Yuta, cocking a brow, and goodness gracious, Donghyuck has somehow only just noticed the scar running through it, the almost pristine way the lines form in the bristles there. 

He shakes his head. “The shopkeep didn’t tell me.”

“They’re for just what we’re doing now,” Yuta explains in a tone that speaks of patience he did not display before. “They’re called mating stones. They make the experience better for whosoever wears them in pairs.”

Had Donghyuck known this, he more than likely would not have bought them, having little use for things of that nature when he’s at home, which is most of the time. “Are you going to wear the other?” he asks hesitantly, reaching into the open pouch to pluck the matching stone from the open parcel. “Would you, if I asked?”

Yuta swallows so thick and so dry that Donghyuck can hear the strain of it. He touches the stone to the hollow at the base of Yuta’s throat, and Yuta makes a noise of pure pleasure, one that Donghyuck very nearly echoes himself, only restraining himself with his lip caught between his teeth. 

Without another word Yuta takes the cord in his deft fingers, ties it around his own neck, and the way the stone looks along with the chain that runs down the length of him is _immaculate_.

They kiss again, again, again, and Yuta wraps Donghyuck’s waist in his legs, their hips connecting sinfully as they learn one another. It seems Yuta is ticklish just behind his knee; when Donghyuck grips him there for leverage, that they might rut against one another like he used to with his playmates in his younger days, he flinches away, nearly biting the tip of Donghyuck’s tongue in the process. “Stop,” Yuta says in a high whine. 

Donghyuck, taken with how utterly charming this is, does as he’s bid. It’s no fun if it isn’t mutual, he decides.

They take turns feeling various parts of one another, Yuta languishing on a nipple when he finds out how sensitive Donghyuck is there. First he teases with a thumb, then with the damp pad of his bottom lip swollen from kissing, then with the slick underside of his tongue. Donghyuck, in turn, maps every lissom curve of Yuta’s spine, his lower back, his ass with the most careful of fingertips. Whenever one of them responds, a half stuttered breath later the other does, as well, and their ardour, such as it is, amplifies their pleasure twofold. 

Donghyuck finds that he watches them for some visible symptom of the danger of which he’s been warned -- some wicked glow, evidence that the pendant is sapping from him some sort of life force.

Every time their lengths, Donghyuck’s clothesd and Yuta’s not, brush against one another, Donghyuck feels it with twice the intensity he’s ever felt. This only serves to make him harder, and soon enough they’re both panting frantically into one another’s mouths, breathless with arousal that is evident in the way they sink into one another with every ungraceful, unpractised movement of their hips. 

Donghyuck reaches between them, then, traces one lingering finger along the underside of Yuta’s cock for the sole purpose of feeling it on his own. He lingers with that touch, keeping it poised at one point of the piercing passing through Yuta’s flesh. In return he receives a sharp gasp, a hiss grit out through gnashing teeth.

A shiver rolls through him and he gasps out the consort’s name, winching shut his eyes and curling his toes in the silken sheets. Yuta must feel it, too, because he kisses Donghyuck again, filthy and slick and hot, their chests pressed together just so, still keeping the space between their groins. Every noise Donghyuck might have earned himself is muffled by his own mouth, not that he can stop his greed now that Yuta has pulled it out of him. Yuta’s hands have stopped their insistent wandering, and now he takes Donghyuck by the nape of his neck, nails pressing into thin skin, pulling tiny whimpers from the base of his throat.

They rut without sense, the heat between them building, tongues and legs tangling, until they no longer seem to care whether or not they’re careful. Donghyuck has long since forgotten the trap he’s fallen into, too lost in the sensation of ink moving beneath his palms, beneath layers of skin. The dragon he’d learned not too long before seems to warm beneath his touch, until Yuta is burning hot, and Donghyuck knows he must unhand him, but cannot drink in enough of the thin sheen of sweat that builds on the sharp mountains of Yuta’s shoulder blades. 

Donghyuck, without thought, mutters Yuta’s name unto his lips, feeling that all too familiar tautness begin to pull at his belly.

Yuta seems to take this as invitation of some kind, though not the sort that Donghyuck likes, because he pulls away, creating a seemingly insurmountable cavern of space between their previously interlinked bodies. Though it had been too hot and humid between the pair of them, he finds he misses the warmth, the reassuring weight of another body on his own. Instead Yuta dots kisses here and there -- on Donghyuck’s face, his chest, his abdomen, wherever he is not impeded by stiff, heavy fabric. 

“What is it you would have me do, Your Grace?” asks Yuta, lifting his enormous eyes to meet Donghyuck’s. It is left unsaid that one or both of them are sure they could finish just by this alone, unsatisfactory as it would be. He reaches up, brushes the fringe from Donghyuck’s forehead, a surprisingly tender gesture that cuts through the impending sea of white threatening to flood his vision.

Donghyuck takes a deep breath, clears his buzzing thoughts, tries to conjure rational speech the way a magician would summon a familiar. Then he says, slow, thoughtful: “I would like to see all of you at once.”

Yuta, too, contemplates this. “How…” He seems to be confused by this, but then an idea comes over him. “Stay still, little lord,” he says, teasing as he slinks down the length of Donghyuck’s body, taking clothing with him as he goes. In the movement, the package that had contained their stones rolls to the floor, but it doesn’t matter much -- Donghyuck is far too turned on by every caress afforded him when Yuta strips him.

He lies there prone, legs spread slightly, watching as Yuta looks around the bedroom, poking into drawers and peering into corners. “Do you need something?” he asks, wilting under the weight of his arousal even as it’s slowly draining from him. Yuta ignores him, so he tries again. “What is it?”

“Look under the bed,” says Yuta sharply, too focused on his task to be gentle. Donghyuck, miffed, props himself on an elbow, pretending it’s an accident when he strokes himself, just a couple pumps, before rolling onto his side and peering with narrowed eyes beneath the bed frame.

There is a phial there, behind the leg of the bed that keeps it suspended, the bottle’s neck wrapped in an ornate cream-and-silver ribbon. He plucks it from its hiding spot and whistles so that Yuta might look up. When he does, Donghyuck holds up his new treasure, a grin on his face. “You’re very pretty, but you aren’t as smart as you look,” he teases, good-natured, and Yuta doesn’t seem to take much offense to it, judging by the way he rejoins Donghyuck with a swiftness. “Are you worried?”

Yuta perches on the spread of Donghyuck’s knees, peers down between his legs, and shakes his head, grinning coyly all the while. His own knees plant firmly in the silken sheets, and the sound is unpleasant, but the view most certainly is not. “Not at all, for myself. Should I be? Do you know how much I’ve worked just today, before coming to you?”

And, faced with the reality that his whore is indeed a whore, Donghyuck shivers, and his cock twitches without his say-so. He takes Yuta’s hips in his hands, dragging him closer. 

Yuta dribbles some of that oil from the phial onto Donghyuck’s length, then offers it to Donghyuck, a questioning brow raised. Donghyuck slicks his fingers with it, then carefully, thoughtfully slides one finger past the rim of muscle at Yuta’s entrance. While he works at that ring Yuta bends at the waist, whimpering kittenishly against Donghyuck’s mouth as they kiss, sloppy, a mash of tongue and lip rather than any concentrated effort at turning one another on. By now they simply need connection, and they have it in the gentle press of fingers inside Yuta, in the way he splays his hands across Donghyuck’s chest to keep him pinned to the mattress beneath him, in the way they’ll pause to catch their breath and rest their foreheads against one another.

“You play well at this,” Donghyuck says, with genuine admiration. He has never imagined the life of a whore before, nor had cause to do as much, but if it feels this good he can understand the inclination toward the profession. He crooks his digits inside Yuta in a way that can only be described as merciless. He must find that spot inside him because they moan in perfect tandem, the delay between the pair of their responses reduced to nothing by sheer virtue of the intensity of Yuta’s pleasure. “Are you sure you’ve just been fucked, whore? You’re still so…”

Yuta only grins, and seals his mouth to Donghyuck’s again. “Suppose,” he breathes, barely able to form words when Donghyuck carefully strokes the hard nub of his prostate, “you’ll have to fuck me and see.”

There are no words between them, now, only kisses, the increasingly loud moans bursting from both their chests, Donghyuck’s throat ragged from the outpouring of pleasure he seems unable to contain. He slots in a third finger, crooks them all at once, and Yuta makes a sound of warning that Donghyuck is helpless to contain within himself.

“Are you ready, darling?” asks Donghyuck, in some play at the lovers they’ll never be.

Yuta answers by positioning himself just right, and it takes their combined concentration and effort to line the head of Donghyuck’s cock up against his entrance. Like the professional he is, Yuta sinks down in one swift movement, ensheathing Donghyuck entirely.

It is enough that Donghyuck sees stars behind his eyes, to feel swallowed by Yuta’s aching, waiting hole in the same breath as he can feel the pleasure of being filled completely. He claws helplessly at the tiger’s face, its eyes glowing faintly golden as it watches Donghyuck be taken completely. 

He swirls a circle with his thumb around Yuta’s nipple, and finds it hard with arousal. With the last of his remaining focus he watches the way Yuta’s hard cock slaps against his belly, and everything is so overwhelming that all rational thought and logic simply shut down in their entirety. Still, Yuta does what he does best, swiveling his hips. Every time his length moves with the rhythm of his riding, the chain moves with him, serpentine and hypnotic; the dying daylight catches in every jewel on Yuta’s person, casting him in perfect relief against the growing darkness in his chambers.

Only with animal instinct is Donghyuck able to start thrusting upward into Yuta’s ass, the tight, wet heat of him inviting Donghyuck back with each downward cant of his own hips. He tips back his head, lips parted, the longest moan Donghyuck’s ever heard spilling out from between his perfect lips.

Everything about him, in this moment, is beautiful, from the way his profile looks in the sunset glow streaming into the bedroom, to the way his cock bounces as perfectly as he does in Donghyuck’s lap.

“C-can, can I-- _fuck_ , can I touch you?” Donghyuck is near to begging in the effort to speak in the first place, nevermind the process of stringing thoughts together. Yuta, in response, takes him by his thin wrist, fits his fingers loosely around his own cock. That’s all Donghyuck has needed all this time, because he starts pumping Yuta to completion in haphazard counter-rhythm to his own cock burying inside Yuta. With each pass of his thumb against that jeweled bar through Yuta’s length, he is hit with a secondary, more insidious sort of pleasure, the sort that works its way up his oesophagus from an already burning knot low and deep in the pit of his belly. He knows that the pleasure mounting between the pair of them is too much for either of them to bear much longer.

“I’m going--” But he can’t get the words out any easier than he could a moment prior, and takes Yuta’s hip in his free hand, guiding his attention.

The look that he gets, a combination of glittering ire in those impossible eyes and the pleasure that draws his mouth into an almost sneer, sets Donghyuck to throbbing. He cannot and will not take more of this.

“I’m going to,” he tries again, and sticks out his bottom lip when he can’t speak properly. Not that it matters when he can feel his face contorting into twin pleasure as he presses the pad of his thumb into the jut of Yuta’s hipbone. “Gonna come,” he finally manages. “Come inside?”

Yuta just makes a sound that could easily be taken as a _yes_. Donghyuck, however, isn’t much in the business of ambiguity, and to catch his whore’s attention he slips his finger around the back of that cursèd necklace, right at the point where it bounces against Yuta’s clavicle, gives it a tug.

The wave of pleasure that crashes down on him -- on them both, he must assume, hazy and distant -- is enough to topple them both over the edge toward which they’ve been building. Yuta releases messy spurts of cum across Donghyuck’s chest, some of it pooling in the divot of his clavicle. The rest of it streaks down his sternum, the upper part of his belly. 

Only a moment later does Donghyuck find his own release, and the warmth of his cum pooling inside Yuta is almost enough to stir him to action a second time. Were he of a more sound mind he might curse his youth, his virility, but for now he can only focus on the burning in his thighs -- or are those Yuta’s? He cannot discern between the pair of them anymore -- and the tingling that settles over him as he feels Yuta’s hole seep with the sticky heat of his release.

The stones seem to wear off as soon as the afterglow does, not that it stops either of them from wrapping up in one another, shifting that Donghyuck might remain inside Yuta for a while to come. The movement nearly sets his legs to kicking, unruly and without regard for the sensitivity of the both of them.

“Was that what you needed, Your Grace?” asks Yuta, all coquette even now, when he’s breathless and his eyes are still a little crossed from the force of his own orgasm not but a few minutes before.

Donghyuck sighs, lets his head fall back against the pillows. “Probably,” he admits, shy now that he’s being flirted with in spite of the lack of objective to it. “That was…”

“We should do that again,” Yuta points out, rolling away. Donghyuck slips from his hole with a wet noise, finding that he regrets losing as much as Yuta’s expression indicates he regrets the loss. “How long are you staying?” Once again he’s poking around the bedroom, albeit on decidedly shakier limbs. His back to Donghyuck, it can be seen that his dragon has shifted, just slightly, to rest its enormous face in the soft, scratched-up valley between his shoulder blades. Its eyes glow a faint shade of red as they watch Donghyuck linger there, useless, in bed.

“What is so special about your art?” asks Donghyuck, bold as anyone might please.

Yuta flashes him a mischievous grin over his shoulder. “What do you think?” And Donghyuck doesn’t have to ask twice to know that there is more magic in this world than his home might let him believe.

“I leave in two weeks,” he says at last, his voice straining. “I do not expect to see you again before then. I expect, actually, to be sent home forthwith, now that you’ve gotten the information you needed out of me.”

“What information?” And here Yuta feigns innocence, though Donghyuck is too sharp by far not to believe there’s something else lurking behind that. He rejoins Donghyuck in bed, a stray scrap of cloth tucked in his palm. It is with the gentlest of hands that he cleans the mess he made of Donghyuck’s chest. “I won’t tell anyone anything you don’t want them to know.”

Donghyuck eyes him suspiciously, unable to cross his eyes hard enough to follow the tender path of Yuta’s careful hands. “Tell them I drank their drink,” he says at last. “That should be enough to keep them suspicious.”

“Good. I’d mislike to tell them nothing. They’d hate you more than they already do.” Yuta’s task finished, he leans over the edge of the bed. The pendant he’d all but stolen from Donghyuck’s clothes still dangles from his neck.

“Can I have that back?” he asks Yuta, indicating the jewelry.

In reply, he receives another smile, brighter than any one he’s been given yet. “How do you expect me to come back if you have both of them?” he asks, and dots a kiss to the bow of Donghyuck’s upper lip. “I have to go. Work to do. People to lie to on your behalf, you know. Shall I have Jaemin send you my calling card?”

And Donghyuck grins, lazy and sated as he curls in on himself, not quite ready to redress just yet. “That would certainly upset him, wouldn’t it,” he tells the dragon watching him from Yuta’s shoulder.

It will, he decides, be an interesting two weeks. And at this rate, he’ll learn more about magic, its effects on the human body, be able to choose for himself whether or not he believes these trinkets to be the danger his fellow sons of sons of diplomats tell him they are.

The door slides shut behind Yuta, and Donghyuck is left to plot their next rendezvous in blessèd, undisturbed silence. In the back of his mind, he plots his second visit to the magic shop where he’d bought their pendants.

After all, why limit them to just one experience when all he has is time?

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](http://twitter.com/appiarian)


End file.
